


The Road From Hell

by Morgan (morgan32)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, First Time, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-18
Updated: 2009-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-02 04:43:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgan32/pseuds/Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set between 4.01 and 4.02: Dean may be out of Hell, but he still has some issues to work on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road From Hell

**Author's Note:**

> For Mouse, who wouldn't take "it's emo crap" for an answer. I edited out the worst of the emo, and hopefully what's left is a decent fic.

Dean was sitting on a stack of old tyres, in the dark junkyard behind Bobby's place. He was brooding. He hated to admit it, but that was what he was doing. He hugged himself for warmth, though it wasn't cold, and gazed up at the cloud-filled sky. He was thinking about angels and Hell...and his father. For a moment it was there again, that flash of memory: light, blood, screaming. The knowledge that there was more he couldn't remember was frustrating.

He heard someone behind him: heavy boots crunching on the gravel, but he didn't turn around. He knew it was Bobby. Sure enough, the older man came into view, offered Dean a nearly-empty whiskey bottle and made to sit down beside him. Dean shifted his ass to make room, but the tyre pile wasn't very big and they still ended up so close together that Dean could feel the heat of Bobby's body through his jeans.

"You okay?" Bobby asked, his voice oddly gentle.

Bobby's too-evident concern pissed Dean off. Alright, it wasn't every day a man was literally touched by an angel. It was probably even less likely for a man like Dean Winchester, who, let's face it, had broken all ten of the commandments and cheerfully worked his way through most of the seven deadlies...and that was _before_ he sold his soul to a demon. Then again, Castiel wasn't exactly Roma Downey and Dean didn't need his friend looking at him like he was some kind of a ticking bomb.

Dean took the whiskey bottle from Bobby and knocked back a generous swig of whiskey. "I'm super," he answered sarcastically.

He passed the bottle back and watched Bobby drink. He remembered kneeling beside Bobby's unconscious body in the wake of Castiel's departure. He didn't know if he believed Castiel's claim to be an angel. He'd been angry, and scared, because once again someone had been hurt because of him. This time it was Bobby, lying unconscious just because Castiel wanted a private chat. It hit Dean, then, how much Bobby had come to matter to him. He was the only person who did, really, outside his family. No...Bobby _was_ family, in every way that counted. _You're like a father to me_, he had told Bobby: words simultaneously truth and lie. Perhaps it was truer to say that Bobby filled the places in Dean's heart that his father hadn't been able to reach. He didn't think Bobby saw him as a son. Dean knew that Bobby loved him. He'd known it since the day after he sold his soul. It had been too plain, the pain of knowledge too raw in Bobby's eyes, for Dean to mistake it. It was another piece of torture in that too-short year, to know what he had done to the man he...

Dean shook his head, trying to dispel the thoughts. He was brooding, and he shouldn't be. It was Bobby who made Dean realise the full meaning of what he'd done, making that deal, but even then, Dean wouldn't have undone it. It was for Sam, to bring Sam back. It hurt even more, knowing that Bobby understood.

They sat together on the tyres for a while, neither of them speaking. It was comfortable. It was more comfortable, in a way, than sitting with Sam would have been. Sam would need to fill the silence and he'd be pushing Dean to talk about stuff before he was ready. Bobby didn't do that. The companionable quiet was disturbed only by the sounds of their breathing.

"He said I have no faith," Dean admitted eventually, breaking a long silence.

Bobby passed him the whiskey bottle. "I wouldn't have thought you'd have a problem with that."

Dean shrugged. "I don't. Not the way he meant it. I don't believe in God, not the whole God-loves-you, angels-watch-over-you deal." He shook his head, hearing the irony in the words even as he spoke. If Castiel was what he claimed, there was at least one angel out there, watching. "It just made me think, that's all."

"Some more whiskey'll take care of that."

Dean grinned. "A man after my own heart." He finished the bottle and waved the empty between them. "Got any more?"

"Sure." Bobby hauled himself up slowly, making Dean think he'd maybe drunk more than Dean realised. He disappeared into the house, returned with a fresh bottle, opened it, drank then gave the bottle to Dean before sitting down again.

"Do you?" Dean asked, raising the bottle to his lips. "Have faith," he clarified.

Bobby tensed; Dean could feel it in the places their bodies touched: Bobby's shoulder against his upper arm, his leg stretched alongside Dean's.

"Sorry," Dean muttered. "None of my business."

Bobby took the whiskey from him and drank. "If there's no God, what makes a hunter more than a killer?" he asked. "If there's no God, an exorcism is just words and holy water is just water. I believe because I see proof every time I hunt." He turned around to look at Dean. "Doesn't mean I think God is some kind of Santa Claus, answering prayers if you're good and makin' sure nothin' bad ever happens. Life doesn't work that way."

Damn straight. Dean considered that, and figured it would do as a working theory. His faith had always been in people: in his father and in Sam. In his mission: keep your brother safe. Those things had defined his life. "God" was just too far away for him. He nodded, accepting Bobby's words, and claimed the whiskey bottle again.

***

Not until the bottle was reduced to half-full, was Dean ready to broach what was really on his mind. He climbed down from the stacked tyres, passing the bottle back to Bobby, and walked around so he stood face to face with his friend.

"Hey, Bobby?" He swayed a little on his feet. Too much whiskey.

"Yeah?"

"Last year, I told you what the demon said about Sam..."

Bobby frowned. "Something about him being different. You still worried about him?"

"I'm worried...about me. I feel..." - _like there are pieces of me missing_ \- "...wrong."

"Wrong how?"

Dean shrugged evasively. Then he held up his left hand. "I slammed the car door on my fingers when I was a kid. You remember: it was you who patched me up. It never healed quite right, but look at it now." There probably wasn't enough light for Bobby to see clearly, but Dean knew the fingers were perfectly straight. The injury, once it healed, had never slowed him down, but he'd always been conscious of the flaw.

Bobby took Dean's hand in his, examining the fingers by touch. Dean felt the older man's rough fingertips slide along his skin and caught his breath. The touch sent a shiver through him. He looked down at their hands, afraid to meet Bobby's eyes.

Bobby grunted. "You believe that thing was really an angel?" He hadn't released Dean's hand.

"I don't know what to believe, Bobby. He was pretty convincing, but I'm not sure I'm buying it. I mean, angels? Seriously?"

"That attitude's gonna be the death of you," Bobby told him.

Dean raised his eyes to Bobby's, still half-afraid. In the light coming from the house, Bobby's face was half in shadow. But there was something in Bobby's eyes that was new. Something, Dean realised, he'd expected to see. Something he hadn't known he was missing clicked into place.

He turned his hand within Bobby's grasp and slowly ran his hand up Bobby's arm. "I need...I want to feel alive."

Dean waited. He knew he hadn't misread Bobby but he didn't know how he would react. The signs had always been there for Dean to see: Bobby's willingness to help him find a way out of his deal, even knowing who they were up against; his joy at finding Dean alive. It was more than friendship; it always had been. Dean was as sure of Bobby's love as he was of Sam's...and now Dean knew Bobby's feelings were anything but fatherly. But that didn't mean Bobby wanted to do anything about it.

Dean had a strong sex drive and had always taken sex whenever it was offered. If he'd been asked about his orientation, he would have said he was straight, but he'd done his share of experimentation with guys. Emotionally, sex meant very little to him; usually it was just a good time. But Bobby would mean something. Maybe too much. It wasn't something Dean allowed himself to have...but he was free now, wasn't he? No deal hanging over his head, no demon on their tail. For the first time in his life, he was free to let this happen.

He wanted it.

Bobby reached up to him. "You're drunk," he accused, but his fingers curled around the back of Dean's neck.

Dean shivered at the touch, his body tightening. "Not so drunk I don't know what I'm doin'," Dean answered.

He didn't know which of them initiated the kiss. Suddenly, they were doing it, hungry at each others' mouths, Bobby's beard tickling Dean's skin, hot, eager tongues and the shared taste of too much whiskey. Dean grabbed two fistfuls of Bobby's shirt and pulled their bodies closer. He felt his cock harden and rubbed himself against Bobby, wanting him to feel it, to know. He slid one hand over the front of Bobby's jeans, pleased to find him just as ready.

Bobby tore his mouth away from Dean's. He was breathing hard, his eyes bright in the darkness. "You want to go inside?" he suggested.

"We'll wake Sam."

"You care?"

"Only because he'll interrupt," Dean answered with a grin.

Bobby nodded. "Yeah, I guess he would. The workshop, then."

Fucking on a dirty workbench didn't sound too comfortable, but right then Dean couldn't have cared less. He'd have dropped his pants and bent over the pile of rubber they'd been sitting on if Bobby asked. He smiled fiercely and followed Bobby.

***

The workshop was three walls and a tin roof, large enough to cover a car with room to spare and with the fourth side open to the elements. Along the back wall was a sturdy bench with various tools and engine parts laid out. It smelled of gasoline and oil; to Dean, it smelled like home. There was no car in the workshop, but up against the left wall was a padded seat that had been ripped out of a car, or more likely out of a truck. Dean smiled when he saw it. He was willing to do it on the cold, hard ground but this would be better. If they were more comfortable they could take their time.

In moments, they had the seat laid flat on the ground. Bobby lit a lamp that hung from the roof; paraffin, to judge by the smell. Dean's eyes had adjusted to the darkness and the lamp seemed very bright. Dean knelt at the edge of their makeshift mattress and pulled his shirt off over his head. He watched Bobby do the same and crawled across the padded leather to touch him. Dean ran his hands over Bobby's chest, feeling the rough, curly hair beneath his palms, warm flesh over firm muscles. His fingers found one nipple and he let his touch linger, enjoying the contrasting sensation of the more delicate skin as the nipple hardened. He slid his hand downward, toward Bobby's belt, and moved in for a kiss.

Bobby fumbled with Dean's belt as they kissed. As Dean felt it come loose he hooked his thumbs into the waistband and shoved his own pants down, underwear and all. His cock bounced free. Dean gasped when Bobby's hand curled around his cock and he balled his fist in Bobby's hair, arching his back. Bobby stroked him firmly, skilfully, as if he somehow knew just what kind of touch Dean liked best. His mouth was at Dean's neck, nipping at the skin. He moved lower, his hot tongue leaving a trail of cool saliva along Dean's collar bone.

Dean drew back, bending down to return the favour and somehow his knee slipped on the leather and he lost his balance. They fell together in an ungainly heap, Bobby half on top of Dean.

Dean started to laugh. God, when was the last time he felt like laughing? It felt so damned good. "I'm sorry," he managed to say through the spasms. "I'm usually better at this."

Bobby smiled, an unusual expression for him. "You just came back from _Hell_. And you just downed half a bottle of scotch." He began to unbutton his jeans. "Still want to do this?"

Dean was lying on his back, pants around his ankles, still laughing. "Damn, Bobby. Just try and stop me!"

The other man shook his head. "Not tonight." He pulled off his boots.

Dean realised he was getting left behind and quickly shed the rest of his clothing. The air around them was cool but not cold and he knew they would soon be warm enough. In the dim light of the paraffin lamp, Dean saw Bobby nude for the first time and liked what he saw. He ran his hand down Bobby's side, feeling the ridge of an old scar. This was the body of a hunter: the body of a man who didn't hesitate to risk his life.

Impulsively, Dean bent down to take Bobby's cock into his mouth. Bobby cried out and his hand closed over the back of Dean's neck, guiding him closer. Dean shifted so he was straddling Bobby's knees, the position giving him a bit more control, and sucked Bobby deeply into his mouth. The hot, hard flesh was heavy on his tongue, the musk of sex filling his nostrils and the bitter-edged taste of pre-cum. Dean drew back slowly, loving the slide of skin beneath his lips. He could feel Bobby's tension, small tremors in his muscles, his breath quickening. Dean could have kept this going for a long time, but he knew Bobby was close to orgasm. He raised his head and Bobby groaned in frustration.

"Fuck me," Dean demanded. "I want you, Bobby. Want you to fuck me. Want to feel everything."

Bobby sat up. "Damn, Dean. I don't have anything..."

"You won't need it. Just go slow." For an instant Dean wondered if Bobby was worried about disease, then he dismissed the thought. He was clean, unless he somehow caught something in Hell. Now that _would_ be a dirty trick.

He met Bobby's eyes, letting him see his need, his lust. They reached for each other at the same moment and then they were kissing and there was no more thought in Dean's mind. He rolled onto his back, opening himself for Bobby. Bobby's hands and mouth were everywhere, on his face, his neck, teeth scraping the tattoo on his chest, a hot palm stroking his cock, a finger pushing into his body...

Dean tried out, torn between begging for more and a sudden awareness that this could hurt if they went too fast. Part of him craved that pain, wanted to do this fast and rough. Wanted to bleed. But he also wanted to be able to walk tomorrow.

Bobby stroked Dean's belly, his rough fingertips circling Dean's navel. It was a soothing touch, calming Dean's desperate need, just a little. Dean gripped the seat beneath him, his fingers sliding on the leather and Bobby stretched him open, patiently working inside Dean.

"Oh, god, come on! Just do it already!"

Bobby chuckled. "You got some deadline I don't know about?" He curled his fingers inside Dean's ass, making him writhe.

"Please! I'm coming apart, here!" Dean gasped the words, barely aware of what he was saying. He felt Bobby's fingers thrust into him again and then withdraw.

"Dean," Bobby said softly, "I know what you need. Trust me to get you there."

Dean took a deep breath and nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Turn over," Bobby instructed.

Dean hesitated, but only for a moment. The position wasn't the one he would have chosen. Bobby's hands guided him as he rolled over, so he ended up not on all fours, but lying on his stomach, the scent of dusty leather filling him. Bobby was _there_, spreading him open, finally, finally pushing into him, and there was pain, oh, yes, but Dean barely noticed it. Bobby filled him completely and Dean's body welcomed him. It was more than the pleasure of being fucked. In every place their bodies touched, Dean's skin burned. Bobby lay above him, his chest nestled against Dean's back as if their bodies were made to fit together, just like this. He moved inside Dean, his thrusts slow and shallow, maddening.

Bobby's breath was hot on Dean's shoulder. He groaned wordlessly, his beard scratching Dean's skin. His hands gripped Dean's outflung arms, just below the still-visible handprint scars. Dean was drowning in sensation. He felt every movement Bobby made. Bobby fucking him felt amazing, his thrusts under complete control, filling him, then the slow drag of withdrawal. He felt the rippling tense and release of Bobby's muscles as they moved together, felt the expansion of his chest with every breath. The position was unbelievably intimate. Dean found his body falling into the rhythms Bobby set until even their breathing was in synch. It was as if they could become, for this short time, truly one flesh.

The orgasm, when it came, was almost a surprise. The rhythm of their joined bodies sent him flying, soaring, the pleasure building gradually so it felt as if he would never peak. But it wasn't frustrating; it was amazing. Then suddenly it was _there_ and Dean heard Bobby's voice join with his, sobbing with release as they climaxed together.

They lay still, neither man ready to break the spell by speaking. Bobby's lips brushed Dean's shoulder. Dean, his eyes closed, sighed. He didn't want to move, but even as he thought it he felt a breeze cooling the sweat on his skin and knew he had no choice.

It was Bobby who moved first, carefully pulling out of Dean before he rolled onto his back and sat up. He passed Dean his shirt.

"Thanks," Dean answered automatically. He rolled onto his side, still not ready to get up. "Bobby, that was..." He grinned, unable to think of a word.

Bobby was reaching for their discarded clothing. He glanced down at Dean. "Yeah. It was. You feel better?"

Dean shook his head. "Are you kidding me? I think I just died. Again."

"I'll take that as a yes." Bobby sounded pleased; maybe even a little smug. Dean figured he had the right.

***

"Dude, what's _wrong_ with you?" Sam asked, exasperated.

Dean looked up from the plate he'd been scrubbing. "Nothing's wrong. Why?"

Sam's look was sceptical. "You were _singing_ in the bathroom this morning. Now you're voluntarily washing dishes."

Dean frowned. "Well, someone's gotta..." he began to point out, reasonably.

"What have you done with my brother?"

Dean slapped him in the chest with the wet dishrag. "I'm happy. Deal with it."

Sam gave him a weird look, shrugged and headed back to the books. Dean watched him go, suddenly aware that Sam was right about the change in his behaviour. After he and Bobby had sex the night before, they'd gone to their separate beds: Bobby upstairs in his room, Dean downstairs, sleeping next to Sam on a makeshift mattress. Dean woke up this morning with a huge smile on his face. He couldn't seem to stop smiling, and he knew why.

It wasn't just good sex. He felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from him. He didn't know if it was a one-time thing or the beginning of something, but he felt he had been waiting half his life for a night like that.

_I'm the one who raised you from perdition_, Castiel had told him, and Dean had no doubt of it. But it was Bobby who brought him out of Hell.

**~ End ~**


End file.
